


FIC:  Five Crowns

by Hippediva



Category: John Wilmot - Fandom, Lord Rochester
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-22
Updated: 2010-03-22
Packaged: 2017-10-08 05:25:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/73144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hippediva/pseuds/Hippediva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One servant's impression of a convivial evening</p>
            </blockquote>





	FIC:  Five Crowns

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Current mood:** |   
stressed  
---|---  
**Current music:** | silence  
**Entry tags:** |  [fiction](http://hippediva.livejournal.com/tag/fiction)  
  
_**FIC: Five Crowns**_  
DISCLAIMER: Rochester belongs to God. I do not own him.  
RATING: At least R...it is his lordship

SUMMARY: One servant's impression of a convivial evening

Life was implausibly fast. It moved at lumbering, frightening speeds and always in the same worn track around London. He couldn't see the beauty of St. James for its familiarity, especially with the underbrush.

It was eight and three quarters by the chiming of the clock inside. He lounged in his chair and envied Charles' damned dogs their fur coats. It was icy cold but my lady Portsmouth insisted the fresh air did them good.

He was sure she was having flushes. And damn Charles for having an old French bawd for a mistress. He huddled inside his coat and drained his goblet, signalling for more. Dawkin, the server leaned forward.

"My lord Mulgrave is noising again, sir."

"Johnny."

"My Lord?"

"Call me Johnny. What's the bloody windbag got up his fundament this time?"

"He says you ran away from his duel."

"Of course I did! Look at him, he's a drunken fool. He might have hit me by accident."

Dawkin's eyes were only partially honest as he hemmed a vague assent and my lord Rochester smiled. "I have better things to die for than lord All-Pride's vanity. It would be but a slight victory."

He turned the full beacon of his charm upon the young man.

"Tell me, Dawkin. What do you do when you get free of this cursed place?"

Nineteen-year-old Tommy's long legs almost buckled. "I-I dunno, milord. I-"

Wilmot's smile was everything it was reputed to be; sudden, sweet, teasing and true.

"Don't be ridiculous. You go down Cheapside whoring, same as all of us."

Dawkin drew himself up, shocked. "My lord!"

"Oh damn your peasant morals, sir. Now, if I can cajole you to fill this cup to brimming, how much pleasanter would wooing fair Phyllis be?"

The dark eyes danced, the tone sharp but without malice. Truly, his lordship was a most confusing gentleman. He never said anything straight off, always toyed with it like a cat with a very fast mouse, chasing after words.

For his own part, Wilmot was not unaware of the responsibility he had to anyone so discreet as to not mention the evening of the fireworks Thursday last and the indescribably scandalous occurances in this very room.

His face dissolved into another seductive smile.

"Dawkin, I lay you five crowns you cannot get this thing filled before I fuck Dame Prescott over there under that blasted fern by the fountain."

"My lord!"

A flutter of lace and he stood, leaning on his silver-capped stick, his eyes lingering on Mrs. Prescott's ample bosom, and handed the confused servant his cup.

"Don't forget. Five crowns, Dawkin."

Whether or not it would be worth a rash was secondary at the moment: there was money on the effort and that was always made his blood run a little hotter.

Dawkin, eager and smarter than his potato-face appeared, sped through the room to refill the goblet or find another close at hand. There was, of course, Mr. Savile's query for the card room, milady Portsmouth's yelp for another decanter and sundry other matters to settle before he triumphantly made his way to the garden.

The fern had stopped rustling and one arm, a bit of bracken clinging to the sleeve's lace, was thrust under his nose.

He handed over the goblet, trying to peek, his face the colour of a pickled beet.

The goblet reappeared with a single crown.

"You nearly missed the prize, sirrah. But you certainly aided the final thrust."

He laughed softly and shut her up with an offhand kiss as he righted his breeches.

"Madame, I congratulate you. You're a bargain so early in the evening."

Wilmot straightened and stood still while Dawkin brushed the remaining mulch from his coat.

"Now, shall we try this again?"

  
FIN


End file.
